Empty
by suzthepeev
Summary: A girl with amnesia shows up at 221b Baker St and moves in with Mrs. Hudson. Originally Sherlock finds her boring, but what about when she beats him at chess?
1. Amnesia

(Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did, there would be romance involved. :D)

She arrived sometime in midwinter. She was there, on the doorstep, with unfocused eyes and chattering teeth. Mrs. Hudson let her in. She filled her with warm tea and wrapped her in multiple blankets, all the while reprimanding her for being outside with only a thin shirt and jeans on. She'd even been barefoot.

It took over an hour before she was at a point where she could speak clear enough for Mrs. Hudson to understand. She managed to stutter out the words, "Where am I?"

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson said. "You're in _London_."

The girl's gaze drifted around the room, staring at her foreign surroundings with wide eyes. "And, um, do you know what my name is?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "No, I'm sorry."

The girl sighed. She knew she'd been grasping at threads with that question. Of course this woman wouldn't know who she was. Not any more than she did, at least.

The front door suddenly opened and she jumped at the sounds of two masculine voices. "I swear, Sherlock, if you keep popping up uninvited like this—"

"Please, John, we both know that whatever threat you're going to make is—oh, hello, who's this?"

She supposed she probably looked very funny, standing in the hallway wrapped in any number of blankets and trying to not spill her tea as she shivered violently. She tried to ignore this, and took in the sight of the two men in front of her. One of them was about her height, with blond hair and dark eyes. He had a sympathetic look about him. Understanding.

The other one was the complete opposite. He was tall with dark hair and eyes that appeared to be gray. There was no sympathy on his face. No, he was simply curious. She didn't know whether she should be intrigued or upset.

"She doesn't know," Mrs. Hudson said, her hands fluttering in the air in front of her like two pale butterflies.

"Doesn't know?" The blond one frowned.

"Oh, of course," the brunet one said, smiling. "Amnesia. I thought so." The smile wasn't for her, or Mrs. Hudson, she knew. It was congratulatory. _Good going, me, I knew you were right..._

"Where's she going to stay?" He was John, wasn't he? Yes, she thought. The nice one was John.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips together in thought. "I have a spare bedroom she could stay in for the time being."

An odd feeling crept over her. It felt like annoyance, like she wanted to tell them _I'm here, please don't speak about me as though I'm not _but then she thought better of it, seeing as they were being fairly hospitable so far. Even though she didn't know who they were and they didn't know her. She glanced at Mrs. Hudson.

"I'd like that," she mumbled. She felt eyes on her, and resisted the urge to glare up at the dark haired one who must be Sherlock. "Maybe a good night's sleep will bring my memory back."

"Doubtful," Sherlock said, shrugging off his coat and tugging at his scarf. John sighed.

"What do you mean?"

"Sleep isn't usually the recommended cure for amnesia."

"I can at least be hopeful, can't I?" She could feel the frown forming on her face.

He turned towards the stairs and called over his shoulder, "What good will _that _do you?"


	2. Ketchup

It wasn't until a week later that she spoke to Sherlock again.

Over the past seven days she'd grown used to the sounds of feet pacing upstairs, voices raised in short bursts of frustration, and the occasional gun shot. At first it had all been shocking, but the frequency of it all served to numb the effect.

On the seventh day, though, all was quiet. John had left earlier that day, mumbling something about ketchup being mistaken for blood. Mrs. Hudson had quietly left an hour and a half later, off to do some much-needed grocery shopping. Since then, the girl without a name had wandered around the bottom flat, taking in all the details and trying to remember who she was. At one point she made herself a cup of tea and sat in Mrs. Hudson's tiny kitchen, staring at a spot on the table and thinking deeply about what her name might have been.

And then, suddenly, footsteps thundered on the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson!" came Sherlock's voice. The girl stared at the door of the kitchen and watched as he barged in. He stopped when he saw her.

"She went to buy groceries."

He groaned. "Do you at least know where she's hidden the skull?"

"Skull?"

"Nevermind." He fell into the chair across from her, studying her face for a moment. "You're not one to be interested in a murder mystery, are you?"

She sipped at her tea. "I don't know."

"Right." He leaned forward. "What would you think if I told you that someone had covered up a murder scene with a fake murder scene?"

"Well," she said, setting her cup down on the table. "Did someone really do that?"

"Ketchup," he replied. Did the man ever blink?

She stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to continue. But he didn't say anything, just sat there with an amused glint in his eyes. "Wait, so they spread ketchup around on a crime scene?"

He nodded.

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

Her mouth opened and closed a few times. "I have no idea."

He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head back. "Dull."

She swallowed and frowned. "So why did they?"

He ignored her.

"Sherlock, who was murdered?"

He opened his eyes again, meeting her gaze. "Eileen Thomson, age thirty four. Her husband Harold phoned the police yesterday about red stains in their apartment. The stains turned out to be ketchup, so the police passed it off as a fake. However," a grin spread across his face, "when I inspected the scene, there were actual traces of blood. There were more traces on the balcony, the fire escape, _and_ a nearby dumpster, where I also found scraps of bloody blue fabric."

"Definitely a murder then?"

The grin slid off his face. "Of course," he said. "Of course it's a murder."

"Right."

"You killed my buzz."

"Sorry."

"No you aren't."

She took a deep breath and brought the cup to her lips. "Is there any more evidence?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

She didn't wait as long before she remembered who she was talking to. "Okay...what's the evidence?"

"A letter opener."

"Is it covered in blood?" Annoyance bubbled up in her stomach.

"No, it's missing."

"Then how is it evidence?"

He glared at her. "Because," he said slowly, as though speaking to a child, and she realized that she wasn't the only one whose patience was wearing thin. "There is a stand for it in the living room and it _wasn't there_."

"So?" She scowled at him. "That doesn't mean it's evidence."

"_Yes it is._"

"All right, all right, whatever you say." She held up her hands. She gulped down the rest of her tea and stood from the table to put it in the sink.

"You don't remember anything."

She nearly dropped the cup, barely managing to catch it before it tumbled to the floor and shattered on Mrs. Hudson's spotless floor. "Nothing," she said. "It's like that annoying feeling you get when you're trying to think of the name of something and it's on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach."

"I don't know that feeling."

"Of course not."

"What's the last thing you do remember?" At that moment she expected to turn around and see him with a clipboard and a pen and a _how-do-you-feel-about-that _expression on his face. Instead, he was sitting in exactly the same position as before, frowning slightly.

"Mrs. Hudson," she said, "opening the door and finding me."

He opened his mouth to say something else when the front door burst open. "Sherlock!" came John's voice. He sounded frantic, and began to run up the stairs when Sherlock called, "In here."

John hurried in and paused for breath only for a second before saying, "You were right! Eileen Thomson never came home and the police found scraps of—"

"Blue cloth," Sherlock said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a lump of red and blue. The nameless girl stepped forward to get a closer look. It was pieces of the fabric, wadded up together.

"Yes," John said. "Yes, you were right. It _was_ a murder."


	3. Chess

"These bits of cloth are scattered in a sort of trail," John said. "The police are following it to see if it will lead to the—"

Sherlock cut him off with a soft groan. "Yes, it's too easy. Harold Thomson, the husband," that part, the girl knew, was added for her, "is the murderer. Well, he didn't murder her, he had someone else do it. There was a receipt in the dumpster from the bank that Harold works at. The murderer must have dropped it while he was disposing of the body."

"You went through the dumpster?"

Sherlock looked at the nameless girl and sighed. "Yes, and I've done it many times before and now I'm bored."

John rolled his eyes and made to leave the kitchen. "I'll be upstairs." He stopped then, and turned to squint at Sherlock. "Why are you down here, anyway?"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he leaned toward his flatmate. "Booored!"

John shook his head and left the room. "Just don't shoot anything," he said, and the girl listened as he trudged up the stairs.

Sherlock sat back in his chair and turned to her. "What are we going to call you?"

She shrugged. "You're the genius. You come up with a name."

He frowned and said, "Gertrude."

"Oh, God no." She laughed. "That's an awful name."

The frown deepened. "Yes, I suppose it is." He turned away, stared at the wall, and huffed. "Trying to think of a name is too boring."

"You're bored very easily."

He pushed away from the table, jumping to his feet and doing a little dance that he wasn't aware of around the kitchen. "I'm bored, oh, God, I'm bored. Entertain me."

She clucked her tongue. "We could play chess."

"No," he said, stopping to give her a strange look. "I'd win within minutes."

"Yes," she said. "And then you could boast about it for hours. Or something. I don't know, what do you want to do?"

"Alright," Sherlock said, in a way that sounded as though he was accepting a gruesome fate. "Fine. Let's play chess."

...

"How did you do that?"

John glanced over from his laptop to see a disgruntled Sherlock hunched over the chessboard. The girl without a name was looking fairly surprised herself. Sherlock looked up at her.

"I don't know."

"Did you cheat?"

"You would have caught me if I'd cheated, wouldn't you?" She began rearranging the pieces to go back in their original spots and he stopped her, pulling her hands away by her wrists. John watched as he glared down at the pieces.

"That's not possible."

"What's the matter?" the girl asked, confused. "Is this the first time you've ever lost?"

"You lost?" John set his computer down on the floor.

"Shut up, John," Sherlock mumbled. He was beginning to pull at a piece of hair on the back of his neck. He sat up straight, clasping his hands in his lap and giving the girl a serious look. "Play again."

And so they did.

She moved a knight and took out one of his bishops. "So about that murder." She sounded calm, but Sherlock could hear the underlying nervousness revolving around the subject.

"What about it?" He counterattacked, using a pawn to take one of her rooks.

"What if it wasn't the husband?" She moved her other rook forward to defend her queen.

"Not possible." His remaining knight took her rook.

"Well, but what if it was?"

John walked into the room carrying a small bowl. "Sherlock, what's this? And why was it in the refrigerator?"

"It's a piece of tongue, put it back." He moved another pawn forward.

"Why is there a piece of tongue in your refrigerator?" She moved one of her pawns to block his and he frowned.

"Experimenting." His hand moved around the board, lightly touching random pieces here and there before landing on his king, who he moved to the side.

"So, the ketchup was a fake murder scene, right?" She moved her queen forward, pressing closer.

"Indeed." He took her queen with a bishop, snatching it off the board with a triumphant laugh.

"Well, what if the blue cloth trail is, too?"

"What?"

She looked up from the board to see him scrutinizing her every move. Her breath caught in her throat at the alert gleam in his eyes. "Well, I mean, if this guy is going to the effort of pouring ketchup everywhere, he seems pretty thorough. Why leave a trail?"

He looked down and watched as she check-mated him with her knight and bishops. He seemed frozen there, and with a shiver she recalled the night she'd been discovered by Mrs. Hudson who she could hear, at that moment, coming in the door downstairs.

"You did it again."

"Yep."

"Why _would_ he leave a trail?" Sherlock stood, still staring at the board. "That doesn't make any sense. He _wouldn't_ make that kind of mistake..."

And that's when he began pacing. She watched as he moved around the room, occasionally stopping to stare into space or at the wall. She moved the chess pieces back into their places. When she couldn't take it anymore she asked, "What are you thinking?"

He suddenly moved toward the door and grabbed his coat, pulling a small piece of paper out of one of the pockets. He studied it for a moment and then turned toward the kitchen, where John was trying to clean a stack of plates.

"John."

"What?"

"We have to go to the bank."

"What for?"

"John, this receipt..."

The girl twisted in her chair to look at him. "The one that proves that Mr. Thomson is the murderer?"

"The exact one."

John sighed. "Actually, Sherlock, I was planning on going out with Sarah tonight—and remember, you promised not to come uninvited." He waved a soapy finger at his flatmate.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, to insist that the case was more important, when the girl stubbed her toe on the leg of her chair and cursed. The consulting detective's gaze landed on her. "What about you?"

"What?" She looked at him over her shoulder, pulling her foot up to rest on her knee so that she could inspect it.  
>He waved the receipt at her and raised an eyebrow. She blinked.<p>

"You want _me_ to go with you?"

"Why not?"

She looked down at herself. Since last week, she'd been borrowing Mrs. Hudson's clothes to wear. While she was thankful for having clean clothes to wear, the clothes didn't actually fit correctly, and looked fairly awkward on her. "Er, I'm not, um, good at mysteries."

He scoffed. "You just pointed out that the trail is as fake as the ketchup."

"That was just a good guess."

"I need someone to talk to."

She sighed and pulled at the collar of her blouse. "All right. I'll go."

"Excellent."


	4. Progress

The taxi pulled up outside of an modern looking building with big windows. The girl stepped out beside Sherlock, staring up at the tall structure. "This is the bank?"

He didn't give her an answer, and she followed him inside, not expecting one. The interior was just as spiffy and modern as the outside. She followed him up an escalator and to a front desk where a pretty woman looked up over the rim of her glasses.

"Yes?"

"Hello," Sherlock said, smiling in a charming way. "I was wondering if you could tell me who this receipt belongs to?" He handed it to her, and the girl watched as his fingers brushed against the woman's. Something was wrong about this. It made her feel slimy.

"Oh," the woman said. "I can't tell you something like that."

He leaned forward. "Listen—what's your name?" His eyes fell upon her name tag and his smile widened into a grin. "Listen, Maria, I'm with the Scotland Yard." He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and opened it, flashing it in front of her.

She eyed it and glanced back up at him, then down at the receipt in her hand. She sighed and, looking around to see if anyone was watching, turned to her computer. She typed something in, referenced the receipt a few more times, and then turned back to Sherlock.

"Mr. Lestrade," she said in a hushed tone, making the nameless girl swallow and press her fingernails into her palms. "This receipt belongs to a Peter Jarvis."

He leaned forward even more, giving her a look that should, by all rights, melt her in her shoes. "Does that computer of yours have his address?"

Maria stared at him for a moment, all words lost. Then something in her mind clicked and she _ahemed_ into her fist before turning to her computer again. After more typing, she smiled up at Sherlock and rattled off a long address that the nameless girl wasn't paying attention to.

Sherlock thanked the woman and turned on his heel, rushing out of the bank as though his life depended on it. The girl barely managed to slip into the taxi next to him, he was in such a hurry. He repeated the address to the cabby, and they were off.

"Lestrade?"

"He's a detective I work with on cases," Sherlock mumbled. He was doing something on his phone, only half paying attention to her.

"What was that little act, then?"

He didn't respond, entirely focused on the screen in front of him.

"I'm sure you broke her poor heart, running away like that."

Still no response. The girl sighed and stared out the window, up at the dark clouds rolling over the city. It would rain today, then. Suddenly the taxi stopped, in front of an older looking building with chipping paint. Sherlock paid him and stepped out, sliding his phone into his pocket. The girl tagged after him, wondering just how much following she was going to be doing.

"Where are we?"

"The apartment of Peter Jarvis." He bounded up the front steps and peered inside a window. Just as the girl had reached the top beside him, he flew down them again, turning the corner into an alley. She grumbled inwardly.

When she turned into the alley, she saw him scrambling up a fire escape. He pressed against another window and fit his fingers under the crack, lifting up. As he was stepping inside the girl called up to him, "Do you often break into people's houses?"

Silence.

She stood in the alley for a while, staring up at the window and making a mental note to _beat him_ later for dragging her into this. And then she heard the sound of shuffling and he appeared at the window, slipping out and down the fire escape. He held something out in front of him.

"This," he said, grinning madly, "is the missing letter opener."

"I had no idea," she said, taking a step back. "I swear I'd just been guessing earlier."

"This is excellent," he said, sounding more and more insane with each word. "A fake murder scene covering up a fake trail, it's _brilliant_!" He did a little jump.

"All right," the girl said as he swept past her, "So where is he?"

Sherlock whipped around and tossed something to her. She caught it, and found herself staring down at an ID card. The picture was of a man with blond hair and a nice smile. "Peter Jarvis" it said, and underneath that the name of a garbage company.

"So he's at work?"

"That's not what matters," Sherlock said, taking the ID back and pocketing it. "What do they do with garbage?" He grabbed her shoulders, excited.

"Um," she fought the urge to push him away. "They bury it in the ground and wait for it to decompose?"

"They incinerate it!" He shook her once and then he was gone, a new spring in his step. She hesitated in the alley, glancing back up at the window. She heard Sherlock say, "Are you coming?" but it went in one ear and out the other. Something nasty churned in her stomach.

"He burned her?"

"That's generally what incineration is, yes."

A shudder passed through her and something nudged her mind. She felt like throwing up. What was this awful feeling?

She wasn't sure what happened, but the next thing she knew she was sitting on the ground, pain shooting up her leg from landing on it wrong, and Sherlock was shaking her arm. She gasped for air, suddenly feeling too cramped in the small space of the alley. She scrambled to her feet, shoving him away and stumbling toward the sidewalk where she bent forward and vomited.


	5. Solved

She wiped the back of her mouth, staring away from the ground where the contents of her stomach were currently melting the snow. Beside her, Sherlock made a noise of somewhat disgusted curiosity. "Are you all right, then?" The words were said in a way that sounded as though he'd asked what the weather was like in Liverpool.

"No," she grumbled, stepping further out into the sidewalk and away from the mess.

"Trauma," he said, nodding. "I knew it would be something like that."

"What?"

He cut through her with his stare, like laser eyes. "Your amnesia. I've been trying to think of how it came about. Obviously not from any head injury, since you're quite fine. It had to be a psychological reason."

"How long have you been at this?"

He ignored her question. "At the thought of incineration, you reacted in a way that implies you have dealt with this kind of scenario before. Your manner also suggested that _small spaces_ are undesirable." He fiddled with something in his pocket.

She shivered and crossed her arms over her stomach, grabbing her elbows and digging her nails into the crook to keep the overwhelming nausea from passing through her again. She restrained from asking him how he'd come about knowing what he did. He'd go off on a tangent, and she didn't quite have the patience to listen to it all at that moment. "Maybe I should go home, and you could go find this guy, Peter or whatever his name is."

"You'll be fine," Sherlock said. He began to stroll away from her and, like a good dog, she followed.

"But what if I'm not?" she said, her voice rising in volume. "What if it, I dunno, comes back and I suddenly throw up all over evidence or something?"

He chuckled darkly, and with a little shiver she realized that if she did throw up on the evidence he'd be more than happy to use it anyway. When they managed to catch a taxi, he gave the cabby the address to the incineration plant belonging to the garbage disposal company that Peter worked for. Then he was on his phone again, doing God knows what with his spare time.

She leaned her head against the window, enjoying the feeling of the cold seeping into her skin. "I wonder what my name is," she mumbled. "I wonder what kind of person I was, or what kind of people I knew."

He was silent. She knew he was thinking—well, he was always thinking—but at that moment she could practically hear the thoughts spinning in his head. She turned to look at him, and he was staring at the space in front of him, his phone long forgotten. His eyes were unfocused. It was a peculiar thing to witness, considering how sharp he always was, how alert and in-the-moment.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" His eyes focused on her face.

She watched him for a moment, waiting to see if anything interesting or worrying would happen. When nothing did, she shook her head and said, "Nothing, nevermind."

They arrived at the incineration plant about ten minutes later. It wasn't particularly exciting, with an outer appearance like any standard industrialized building. There were chimneys in various places with dark smoke wafting into the air, and a few trucks parked in a mostly vacant lot, but other than that it was incredibly—

"Dull," Sherlock mumbled to himself. _Yes_, the girl thought. _Exactly as I was thinking_.

She began walking toward the front door and he pulled her back by the collar of her coat. He shook his head when she protested. "You can't just walk in," he said. "Then he'd have time to hide anything worth finding."

"Right."

Instead, they made their way around the building, inspecting any and all entrances. All the while, as she watched the smoke filling the sky, a feeling of dread slowly built up inside of her, spreading to her fingertips and making her cheeks tingle.

After wandering around for close to an hour, Sherlock suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned toward a trashcan near one of many back doors. Sitting on top was a cardboard box, hastily taped shut. He pulled the letter opener out of his pocket and cut through the tape, pulling open the flaps to reveal...ashes.

He stuck his hands in, feeling around in it with an obvious look of glee on his face. The girl felt somewhat repulsed by his reaction.

"Ah!" he said, and brought one hand out, holding a deformed piece of metal. It was round and thin as though it might have, at some point, been a bracelet. Sherlock dropped it back in, closing the box and tucking it under his arm. "Now," he said, "we pay a visit to Mr. Thomson."

...

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" Lestrade frowned at the consulting detective.

"I need to see Harold Thomson," he said. He was carrying the box in front of him, and if she hadn't known what was inside it she might have thought that it was some kind of gift. Lestrade eyed it suspiciously.

"What's in that?"

"Ash." Such a simple answer, lacking so many very important details.

"Sherlock, why do you have a box of ash?"

Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes with impatience. "Look, I need to speak to Mr. Thomson. It is very important that I do so."

Lestrade sighed and scratched the back of his head. "All right. This way, then."

The three of them began to walk down a corridor. Lestrade began going on about when they'd brought the husband in, what had happened since then—including Mr. Thomson's multiple attempts at convincing them that he wasn't the murderer—and other things when Lestrade glanced over his shoulder and saw the nameless girl tagging along.

He stopped. "Who's this?"

Sherlock looked her over once. "That's a very good question," he said.

Lestrade scowled. "Why is she with you?"

"Why not?"

The scowl deepened. "You can't just bring a girl with you," the inspector said. "There are rules, Sherlock, and you can't break all of them."

The girl shook her head. "I can wait out here," she said, gesturing to the hallway, which was an atrocious color of beige.

Lestrade nodded. "You do that. Now then..." And he turned and resumed walking and informing Sherlock of all that had happened.

An hour of complete boredom later, the girl looked up to the sound of footsteps. An officer was escorting a relieved looking man to the front area. She guessed this must be Mr. Thomson. A few minutes after that, Lestrade and Sherlock came walking side by side. They swept past her and she pushed herself to her feet.

"Are you going to arrest Peter?"

The men stopped and Lestrade gave Sherlock an exasperated look. "How much, exactly, have you told her?"

Sherlock merely smirked.

"Um," she said, drawing their attention. "I was there when he found out it was Peter."

Lestrade seemed to give up, making a sort of shrugging motion. "I guess I don't really have a right to complain," he mumbled.

...

"Where have you two _been_ all day?" John stood in the doorway of the living room, holding a hand towel. "Last I knew, you were just going to the bank."

"Yes, well, things came up." The girl collapsed into one of the chairs and took a deep breath, closing her eyes.

John raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"We solved the case," Sherlock said, hanging up his coat.

"We?"

Sherlock stopped, frowning. "Well. I mean, _I_ solved the case."

The girl scoffed. "Of course."

John looked between the two of them and set the towel down on a nearby bookshelf. He crossed his arms over his chest and stepped farther into the room. "What exactly happened?"

"We went to the bank," the girl said, sitting up straighter. "We found out the receipt belonged to some guy named Peter. So then Sherlock did this weird thing—"

"It wasn't weird."

"It was _manipulative_," she said. "So he manipulated the woman into giving us Peter's address and when we went there he broke in—does he do that often?"

John nodded.

"Right, well, he broke in to the apartment and found the letter opener—"

"Letter opener?" John moved around so that he was standing in front of her. Sherlock sighed and moved to sit on the couch.

"Yes," the detective said. "The one that was missing from the Thomson's apartment."

"Oh," John said, though his expression added in the part that went _That letter opener that you never told me about, right, that one_.

"And he found the letter opener in Peter's apartment." The girl leaned forward conspiratorially. "He also found an ID saying that Peter worked for this garbage company and he realized that Peter had, well, he'd incinerated her."

"And then she threw up."

The girl shot him a nasty glare. "Yes," she said, voice curling with contempt. "And then I threw up."

"Why did you throw up because of _that_? You were perfectly calm about the murder earlier." He dropped his arms to his sides, wiping his palms on his jeans. "_And_ you were fine when I found a piece of _tongue_ in the _refrigerator_."

"Oh, please, John," Sherlock said, dramatically throwing an arm over his eyes. "Don't be such an idiot. It's obviously tied into her amnesia."

Before John could question it, the girl rushed on with her explanation of events. "_So then_ we went to the incineration plant and found this cardboard box with ashes and one of Eileen Thomson's bracelets and Harold Thomson was let go and Peter...Jarvis, was it? Jarvis, yeah, he was arrested."

John stared at her for a long while, and then at Sherlock, and then back at her. "And you did all of this...in only a few hours."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"You seem pretty calm about the whole thing."

She laughed sharply. "Well, how did you react?"

He shook his head, his expression thoughtful. "I could barely keep up."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "She seemed to have that problem as well."

"Look," John said. "Normal people aren't capable of keeping up with...with...with someone like yourself." He ended lamely, and she could tell from the way his shoulders slumped that he was fully aware of this.

"It's called 'high-functioning sociopath', John. Use your vocabulary."

"Not all high-functioning sociopaths are like that!"

"High-functioning sociopath?" The nameless girl dug her nails into her palms. "What does that mean?"

Sherlock said nothing. He just sat there in his dramatic arm-over-the-eyes pose. John was the one who finally spoke. "Insanity," he said. "That's what it means."


	6. Names

"So."

"So?"

"So...why did he do it?"

Sherlock was lounging on the couch, pressing another nicotine patch down onto the pale flesh of his arm. The nameless girl sat on the floor in front of him, reading a book about poisons she'd found on the coffee table, and John was sitting in the chair across from them, with his computer open in his lap. He'd begun writing about the case, and had titled it "The Problem with Ketchup".

"Romance," Sherlock drawled, closing his eyes and leaning his head back on the arm of the couch.

"Romance?" John tapped his fingers on the side of his laptop.

"Yes," the detective said. "Peter Jarvis was in love with Eileen Thomson. I found love letters hidden under her mattress, and he kept a photograph of her beside his bed. Annoyingly obvious."

"Then why did he kill her?"

At this question, the girl raised her head, sliding a scrap of paper in between the pages of the book as a bookmark.

"She denied him," Sherlock mumbled. "He came to her balcony and asked her to be with him and she said no. So he killed her." He shook his head and waved his hand about in a random gesture. "I've had better cases."

There came a sudden knock at their door. Mrs. Hudson poked her head in and her eyes immediately fell on the girl. "I'm sorry about this, dear," she said, stepping all the way into the room. "I'm not sure how to tell you this..."

"She wants to rent the room you're staying in," Sherlock said. His voice was quieter by the minute, and if the girl hadn't known any better she would have thought he'd been falling asleep. He probably just didn't want to put in all the effort of making his voice audible.

The girl swallowed. "Oh...then where will I stay...?" Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

"Here, of course."

All eyes shifted to Sherlock's face. If he knew he was being stared at, he didn't show any sign of it. He simply readjusted himself on the couch and sighed.

"What was that?" John asked. "I don't think I heard you right."

"Do you need a hearing aid?" Sherlock said disdainfully. "I said that she would stay here. With us."

"Somehow I never saw you as the charitable type."

"I'm not."

"Then why are you—"

"It's _simple_, John," Sherlock snapped. "She gets a room, I get entertainment."

The girl set the book down next to her and turned so that she was fully facing him. "What do you mean, _entertainment_"

"Oh, _God_," Sherlock said. "_Why_ is everyone asking such _inane_ questions?"

"I'm just curious is all," she said, staring down at her hands. "I'd like to not end up as one of your experiments."

The doorbell rang downstairs and Mrs. Hudson said, "Oh, that's probably for me." John jumped, having forgotten her presence in the doorway. "I'll bring up your things later then, shall I?"

"My things?"

"Your clothes." Oh, she meant the too-thin shirt and the jeans. The girl felt a chill run across her skin as she realized that those clothes were all she had left of her past life.

Mrs. Hudson hurried away with a small wave and an apologetic smile. John glanced between Sherlock and the girl and said, "Oh, well, this is awkward."

"Is it?" Sherlock sat up suddenly. He rose to his feet and made his way out of the room. Silence filled the gap where he had been.

"How can you live with him?" the girl asked John.

"Sometimes I have no idea."

...

"Sherlock, there's nothing but body parts in your kitchen."

"Problem?"

She sighed in frustration. "Well, y'know, I'd like to have an actual _breakfast_..."

He scoffed. "Breakfast," he said contemptuously.

"I'm serious," she said. "It was your idea for me to live here. The least you could do would be to supply me with necessary amenities."

"John!" he called, banging on the wall. "Go buy some eggs!"

"We need milk, too."

"And some milk!"

John made his way down the stairs. "Why are we _always_ out of milk? It's not like _you _drink it."

He was dressed nicely. The first word that came to the girl's mind was _spiffy_. As he stood before them he was finishing buttoning the cuffs of his sleeves, and he ran a hand through it hair to smooth it down.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock mumbled.

"I have a date," John said. "With Sarah. So I can't get your milk."

"It's not _my_ milk," Sherlock said. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. The girl wondered if she would be able to feel his ribs if she were to touch him. He was so thin.

John shook his head. "She's your house guest, Sherlock."

He groaned in response.

"I can go get it," the girl said. She tugged at her nightshirt, wondering if she could borrow a sweater since it was still fairly cold outside.

"You don't know where the store is," John pointed out.

"Oh, _fine_," Sherlock said, banging the back of his head against the wall. "I'll go with you."

It seemed to her, though, as she finished dressing and stood at the bottom of the stairs waiting for Mrs. Hudson to bring her a coat to borrow, that Sherlock seemed too excited to not have known that this would have been the outcome.

"You were expecting to have to go with me," the girl said as he hailed a taxi.

He smirked. "I wouldn't say I _expected_ it..."

She slid into the taxi next to him and waited for him to rattle off the name of a nearby store that she didn't care enough to pay attention to. "You know everything, don't you?" she said when he'd sat back and whipped out his phone.

"Well," he said. "Not _everything_."

"Oh, that's right," she chuckled. "You didn't know the earth went around the sun, right?"

"Even _you_ read that?"

"Just because I can't remember who I am doesn't mean I can't use a computer."

"You were probably someone very dull," Sherlock mumbled, typing something into his phone. "It's good that you lost your memory, because now you are more interesting."

She wasn't sure if she should be insulted or flattered. Perhaps if she knew who she was supposed to be she would be insulted; however, considering that she was probably much different now that she had new, fresh eyes and might even agree that she'd been dull in the past, she couldn't help but smile slightly.

The shop was small, but as she wandered around inside with Sherlock she saw that it had everything she needed. She filled a basket with a jug of milk, a carton of eggs, butter, a box of oatmeal, and multiple cans of soup for dinner.

She also grabbed a chocolate bar.

"You have the money to pay for this, right?" she murmured to Sherlock as she stood in the thankfully short line.

"No, silly me, I must have left everything at home."

"Good."

He reached into his pocket when she sat the basket down on the counter, pulling out a shiny credit card that she doubted he'd ever even used before. The woman put the items into plastic bags and they rushed out the door for no real reason.

It wasn't until they'd arrived back at the flat that Sherlock pointed out that she'd forgotten the milk on the counter. All she could do was groan.

...

"Didn't you get milk earlier?"

John was calmly studying the contents of the fridge, which consisted of the meager groceries they'd picked up earlier and someone's foot.

"We forgot it at the store."

"Correction," Sherlock said, "you forgot it at the store."

The girl threw a sock at him. "You could have mentioned it _before_ we left, don't you think?"

"I was waiting to see if you'd notice."

She grumbled something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Damn egotistical sociopath." John couldn't help but snicker into his fist.

"All right, then," Sherlock said suddenly. "Let's find you a name."

"Haven't we tried that before?" the girl asked, setting down the remote control to the telly. "It ended with the name Gertrude. I don't want to know what you'll think of next."

"Hmm...Matilda."

"No."

"Julia."

"No."

"Diane."

"Nope."

"Josephine."

"Good _God_, Sherlock, where do you get these terrible names?"

"Julia isn't a terrible name," he said, crossing his legs.

The girl resumed flipping through the channels, occasionally pausing to see if something was worthy of her attention. Most often not, but she kept trying anyway.

"Alexandria."

"Try again."

"Michelle."

"Maybe in another life."

He snapped his fingers, staring at the ceiling. "Hmm. Catherine."

"Oh, oh, oh!" she cried, sitting up. But then her face fell and she shook her head. "Nope, nevermind."

"Margaret."

"I truly hope not."

"Jooohn," Sherlock whined. "Help me think of names."

John walked into the room with a plate full of scrambled eggs and took a seat, eyes on the telly. "Georgia."

The girl turned to look up at him. "Say that again."

"Erm. Georgia?"

"Yes!" She pushed herself to her feet, a grin spreading across her face. "That's it, that's it!"

"Wait, really?" John frowned and brought a forkful of egg to his lips. "I was just taking a shot in the dark, really."

"I have a grandmother named Georgia," Sherlock said. The girl, Georgia, turned to glare at him.

"Thank you for your input, Sherlock," she said. Her features instantly turned back to excitement. "I can't remember anything else, but _I know what my name is!_"

She ran downstairs, calling out for Mrs. Hudson. "Guess what!" she cried. "My name is Georgia!"


	7. Rabbit

Georgia stared down into the toilet. "Oh god."

She made her way into the living room where she found Sherlock lounging on the couch. "I started, um, something feminine," she told him, wringing her hands together.

Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back. "John!" he called out.

Georgia's shoulders slumped, and she thought that John must be Sherlock's solution to every problem. Need milk? Call John. Need pads for the random girl you've got living in your apartment? Call John.

"What?" John kicked the refrigerator door closed and dropped something in the sink. He cursed and picked it up with two fingers, carrying it over to the trash can, where he seemed all too happy to dispose of...whatever it was. Georgia didn't want to know.

"Go to the store."

"Why?" John wiped his hands off on a dish towel. "I just got milk yesterday. We can't have run out this soon."

"No, no," Sherlock said, as though John was completely idiotic. He gestured to Georgia, who jumped in humiliation. "She needs certain items."

"What do you—oh."

Georgia's cheeks turned bright red and her chin dropped to her chest. "Yeah," she mumbled. "That."

"Why don't _you_ go and get it?" John said in a rather defensive tone as he glared at Sherlock.

The sociopath groaned. "Because I don't _feel_ like it."

John was about to argue, the tips of his ears turning crimson, when Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "John. Just go."

"Oh, fine."

He grabbed his coat and made sure the door slammed on his way out.

"Want to play chess again while we wait?" She lowered herself into one of the many chairs in the living room.

"No," Sherlock said.

"Why not?" She frowned. "Is it because I won last time?"

"Yes." He didn't seem to enjoy admitting this. In fact, there seemed to be a hidden message in his tone: _Shut up about it, now._

"Come on," she said, leaning forward and prodding him in the side. He practically fell onto the couch, giving her an exasperated look. "I'll go easy on you."

"No, that won't be necessary."

"Oh, pleeeeaaase?" She was aware that, in her 'past life', she would never have done something like this. This knowledge pleased her.

"Oh, fine."

However, before either of them could move to find the chess board buried beneath piles of random items scattered throughout the living room, the doorbell rang. Georgia immediately shrugged it off, assuming it to be John.

"Maybe he forgot his keys," she said, moving a stack of books. Sherlock was frowning, though.

"He wouldn't do that," he mumbled to himself. He gestured for her to follow him as he opened the door and stepped out.

"Can't Mrs. Hudson get that...?" Georgia was uncertain now, and an odd feeling was creeping up her spine.

"Mrs. Hudson is next door having tea," Sherlock replied. He began quietly descending the stairs, and he brought his finger to his lips. Clearly he found something wrong about the situation. Georgia hugged the wall, padding down softly behind him.

When he opened the door, no one was there. He looked down and Georgia followed his gaze. She would regret it.

She covered her mouth and stumbled backward, collapsing at the bottom of the stairs with a gasp. Sitting on the front step outside the door was the burnt remains of a rabbit. Something floated into her mind, a memory of heat and sweat and metal doors—

"Someone knows you're here," Sherlock said, crouching down to study the black corpse. She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on the wonderful feeling of the cold floor beneath her.

He stood, closed the door, and swept past her, up the stairs. Using the railing, she shakily pulled herself to her feet and followed him into the upstairs flat, where she found him making a call to someone.

"—and if you find any burned bodies, you'll tell me about them?" There was a pause as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line, and in this pause her vision swam. "Good." He hung up.

"Well," he said, turning to look her over. There was an excited glint in his eye that she didn't quite trust. "This is getting interesting."

The next few seconds were a blur for her. She was aware, at first, of a fury emerging from deep inside. And then suddenly she was standing in front of Sherlock, who was pressing a hand to his cheek with a shocked expression and her hand stung.

"_No_," she said through gritted teeth, trembling. "It's not _interesting_. It's _horrible_ and constantly makes me feel like I'm going to throw up. Don't you _dare_ say that it's interesting."

For once he was completely silent . Her nails dug into her palms and she steadied her breathing and glared at him, wishing that, at that moment, looks really could kill. Here she was having a mental crisis and he's treating it like a _game_.

They stared at each other. Eventually she stopped shaking and her muscles loosened and she sighed. He regarded her with cautious but curious eyes.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. He didn't say anything, just held his hand to his face and watched her carefully. Like she would suddenly strike out again.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, before she could stop herself. The words felt so familiar on her tongue, and they came out automatically, mechanically.

"Lots of things," he said, finally bringing his hand away from his cheek. There was a pink mark there that resembled her hand. "You might try asking something more specific."

She shook her head. "No, no, nevermind. I don't know where that question came from."

"Ah."

She didn't like how silent he was, how he seemed to be leaning away from her, eyebrows knitted together as he watched her. In fact, she hated it. She felt her stomach churning, and knew that the expression on her face wasn't a pleasant one.

"Stop that."

Before he could answer, the door opened and slammed shut downstairs.

"Hey!" John cried, feet pounding on the stairs. They both turned to the doorway as he burst into the room. "Could someone _please_ tell me why there's a _burnt rabbit corpse_ outside?" He was glaring pointedly at Sherlock.

"It wasn't me," the detective said.

Georgia raced to the kitchen. "I'm going to throw up."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Sorry, guys, this one came out a bit heavierdarker than the other ones. I'll try to include more humor in the next chapter. :)**


	8. Dream

_This couldn't possibly be real. For one thing, the hallway was much too long, and for another, John would never dress up in a lion suit. Right?_

_Georgia shuddered in the cold air drifting down from the giant air vent above her. She stood in front of John with her head tilted to the side, rubbing her arms to keep them from freezing and falling off._

_"Why are you wearing that ridiculous costume?"_

_John shrugged, his fake tail swishing in thought. "I dunno. Just felt like it, I guess." Then his eyes widened and he leaned forward. "Say, do you know where I could find some rabbit? I'm awfully hungry right now and—"_

_She pressed a hand over his mouth. "No, sorry. Please shut up." She could feel his whiskers under her palm, and it made her want to scratch behind his fake ears. Did she even like cats?_

_She heard a strange noise from the other end of the hallway. She moved away from John and past multiple doors, some of which were triangular shaped. At the end of the hallway was a bright green door, which filled her with a sense of dread, and when she opened it she found the kitchen on the other side. Sherlock stood at the counter with a jar of grape jelly in his hand and a spoon in the other._

_When he saw her he grinned and said, "Oh good. I was wondering when you'd get here."_

_"What?"_

_Her feet carried her forward. As she neared him, he seemed to grow larger and larger until she felt like a mouse at his feet. He bent a plucked her from the kitchen tiles, bringing her up so that she was level with his eyes. She was vaguely aware of John entering the kitchen behind her._

_"I'm bored," Sherlock said, holding her in his palm. "I want to see how long it takes to digest you."_

_"Oh, oh!" John said cheerfully. "Can I help?"_

_Sherlock scowled at him. "No. My experiment." Georgia turned, grabbing hold of one of Sherlock's fingers to keep herself steady, and watched as John's expression turned to one of disappointment._

_"Now then." She turned back around to see Sherlock scooping a large amount of jelly from the jar. He grinned down at her. "Let's see what happens."_

_The last thing she remembered was the pearly whites of his teeth._

She woke up gasping. "What the _bloody hell_ was that?"

"What?"

She jumped. She'd been sleeping on the couch (as she'd been doing since she'd moved in with Sherlock and John), so it was perfectly normal for the detective to be sitting in one of the living room chairs, doing something on John's computer. But after_that_ dream, just hearing his voice was terrifying.

"A nightmare," she said. It was dreadfully cold in the room, and as she squinted around she saw that a window was open. She also smelled toast, and her stomach grumbled.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I know. You were mumbling in your sleep."

"I was?"

He nodded, eyes never leaving the screen. "Something about cats and jelly."

She laughed. Out of context it was incredibly silly. In fact, as she recalled the nightmare, the entire thing was humorous. John in a lion costume and Sherlock eating her for an experiment. How peculiar.

Sherlock was watching her now. "Well?" he said. "I'm bored. Tell me about it."

So she did. She started from the beginning, with the freezing hallway and John in a lion suit (at which point he came into the living room with a plate of toast and butter), and ending with Sherlock devouring her.

Her stomach rumbled again, and she reached for a piece of John's toast.

"That's odd," the doctor said, not attempting to protect his breakfast.

"Odd doesn't cover it," Georgia mumbled between a bite of delicious, crunchy, buttery bread. Her stomach was pleased.

Sherlock was back to typing something, but he soon finished and closed the laptop with a flourish. John made a comment like, "Easy, there, that was expensive..." but Sherlock ignored him and set it down on the floor.

He left the room suddenly, without saying anything. John and Georgia watched him leave, listened as the shower turned on. They glanced at each other, perplexed. Sure, Sherlock was known to have his mood swings, but not like _this_.

They moved on though. John soon left for work, giving Georgia an apologetic and understanding smile (she loved those) as he walked out the door. As she waited for Sherlock to make some dramatic entrance back into the living room, she dressed and picked up a book about quitting smoking. She was sure she'd never smoked before (at least, she didn't think she was the kind to smoke), but it was certainly interesting.

And then, just as suddenly as he left, Sherlock swept back into the room, hair still damp. Without even so much as stepping a foot into the kitchen he said, "There's no food left. You hungry?"

"What?" She blinked. "But John just had toast—"

"Yes, and now there's none left." He grabbed his coat. "Look, there's a nice diner down the road—"

"Sherlock."

He stopped. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

He frowned in thought. "I'm hungry, are you hungry? I was just thinking we should get food."

"No," she said, shaking her head and laughing. "You're Sherlock Holmes. You don't care about that kind of thing. There's a hidden purpose to this, I know it."

He sighed. "Are you coming or not?"

She stared at him for a moment. He could, potentially, be dragging her into something dangerous. Or, better yet, toying around with her lack of memories. All in all, it would be safer if she declined and stayed in the secure confinement of the flat.

But then life wouldn't be interesting, would it? Danger and excitement went hand in hand when you were around Sherlock. Georgia supposed that she shouldn't deny the course of nature.

"All right," she said. "Let me borrow a coat from Mrs. Hudson."

The diner he'd spoken of was a fairly crowded one. They ended up with a table by a window, sipping on glasses of water and staring awkwardly out at the street (at least on her part). They didn't talk. No, there was definitely a reason for wanting to go out to eat, other than just something social. Maybe he was looking for someone, or watching someone he'd already found.

"Why are we here?" The glass was cold in her hand. Everything was cold that day.

An expression of puzzlement graced his features. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play pretend with me, Sherlock," Georgia said. She frowned at him in a way that a teacher or stern aunt might.

His face smoothed out, going back to the emotionless state it was usually in. "You'll find out," he said.

"If you don't tell me now, I'm leaving."

He smiled slightly. It didn't reach his eyes. She hated his fake smiles. "No you won't. You want to find out what's going on."

The frown deepened. It was true. Now that he'd pulled her into whatever game he was playing, she had to know what happened. It was unnerving that he could read her so well.

She was about to say something sarcastic, to maybe start up some witty banter to pass the time, when something caught his eye and he waved a hand at her, silencing her. She resisted the temptation to turn in her seat and see what he was staring at.

"Act...normal," he murmured so that only she could hear.

A man passed by their table. He dropped his wallet, and bent down to pick it up. When he stood up straight again, he smiled at Georgia and then at Sherlock, tipped his hat, and was on his way again.

"Who was that?" she hissed when she was sure he was out of hearing range.

"I think," Sherlock said, "he's the man who left your present on the doorstep."


	9. Whiplash

"How do you know for sure?"

After the man had passed their table and Sherlock had shared his suspicions, Georgia had insisted on leaving. They'd stopped by a corner store on the way back to the flat, and she'd picked up some yogurt to make up for the missed meal.

Instead of answering, Sherlock plucked the container from her hand. His eyes scanned the ingredients and he mumbled, "Aspartame, potassium sorbate, acesfulfame potassium, sucralose, malic acid, sodium citrate, fructose, modified food starch..." He dipped his finger in, ignoring her protests, and brought a glob of pink to his mouth. He gazed at the ceiling as he contemplated the flavor."That's crap, you know," he said, handing the container back to her. It nearly slipped out of her fingers as she stared at him in shock.

"Since when," she said finally, "are you my dietician?"

He washed his hands at the sink as though the traces of yogurt would turn him into a leper. "Just getting that out of the way before John comes home and finds you."

Her eyes wandered down to the small plastic container in her hand. It didn't take long before the shame set in and she was dropping it in the trash. Money wasted.

"But you never answered my question," she said, turning back to him. He was leaning against the counter with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"There was charcoal on his shoes," he said quietly, only half in the moment. "And when he dropped his wallet, a business card slipped out and underneath our table." He reached into his pocket and drew out said card, passing it to her. It was something about a farm and it made her think of rich dinner parties with champagne bottles and roasted duck.

Or maybe even rabbit.

She shuddered. "Oh," she said, quickly handing the card back to him. "I see."

"However," he continued, snapping his fingers, "his part is only a bit part. He showed no sign of recognizing either of us. He was hired to place your present at the door."

"Could you stop calling it my 'present'?"

His gaze flashed to her. "What would you prefer?" he snapped. "The 'crispy fried rabbit'?"

She flinched. "Don't do that."

"So don't interrupt my train of thought."

They stared at each other in silence for a long while. He was glaring at her, something that made her unbelievably uncomfortable. She licked her lips and had to swallow down an apology. She wouldn't say sorry to him.

And then his expression changed. It shifted so suddenly that she was momentarily alarmed, and she wondered if it was possible to get emotional whiplash. He took a step toward her and she involuntarily stepped back, bumping into the kitchen wall.

"I've been wondering about something," he said. There was a cold, scientific curiosity in his eyes, and a slight smile on his lips. Her thoughts jumbled together until the only one that she could comprehend was screaming at her, _Oh god, don't let him—_

His fingers trailed the edge of her sleeve, feeling the stitches in the fabric, and then he leaned forward and it was all over.

It shouldn't be right that someone so cold could be so warm.

"Sherlock."

It shouldn't be right that his hands could feel so wonderful holding her in place, touching her arms and her neck and her waist and all over, everywhere, anywhere...

"Sherlock—"

He shushed her and tightened his grip on the small of her back, his fingertips digging into her skin in a very enjoyable way. Her own hands betrayed her, drifting up around his neck and tugging at his hair. Her mouth moved against his, her knees feeling weak.

She found some ounce of resistance inside and managed to pull her arms back and push at his chest. "Sherlock, _no_."

"Why not?"

Her lips stopped searching for his, her knees stole back their strength. "I will _not_ be one of your experiments."

"Who said you were?"

He pressed against her, and she felt the wall behind her back. Her breath caught in her throat. "I don't have to be a consulting detective to know what this is."

"It's two people," a kiss "who enjoy each other's company," and another "taking part in recreational activities."

She wanted to give up. Let him have his way, drown in his charm and his touch. But a stubborn part of her that she wasn't aware existed suddenly kicked in and she shoved him away, gasping in air that wasn't polluted by his existence. She wouldn't allow herself to be dragged in.

"_Sherlock._"

He finally leaned away, defeated, though she could still see that dangerous spark in his eye. "Fine," he said, and then repeated it as though sealing some deal. "Fine."

"I will not be used," she said, glaring daggers at him and ghosting her fingers over the wall behind her. It was all that was keeping her on her feet.

He turned on his heel, disappearing into the living room, and she heard the sound of him flopping down onto the couch. He was _sulking_.

She nearly collapsed on the kitchen floor. _System failure_, she thought with a quiet, breathy laugh. _Blue screen of death. Sherlock released a virus._

_Sherlock._

_Oh god._

She stumbled forward, clutching at the counter. He was an idiot, a bastard, and she was all the more for nearly falling for it, for him. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and high-functioning sociopath, was _not_ a healthy person to be around. As she scowled at the pattern of the tiles on the floor, she promised herself that once she'd gotten her memories back, she was_ out of there_.

When John got home two hours later, he was confused. Sherlock was lying on the couch and staring up at the ceiling and wouldn't speak a single word, and Georgia was sitting on the kitchen floor, curled up against the cupboard next to the refrigerator. She appeared deep in thought, but when she noticed him standing in front of her, she managed a weak smile.

"All right," he said, shrugging off his coat. "What happened?"

She chewed on her lip, eyes unfocussed. "Things."

"Sherlock?"

The detective finally spoke. "Bored!"

Georgia sighed and banged her head against the cupboard behind her, closing her eyes. "No one cares if you're bloody bored!"

"Look," John said, "just give me some answers. Did you guys find something?"

There was a shuffling from the other room and then Sherlock appeared in the doorway. "We found who left the crispy fried rabbit."

"I told you not to say that!"

"He was paid to leave it," Sherlock continued, ignoring her. "The only way I could find out anything more would be if I questioned him."

"Are you going to do that?" John asked expectantly.

Sherlock frowned. "No. He wouldn't know anything else."

John sighed. "Right." He glanced between them. "So that's why you're both acting like this?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock said, crossing his arms over his chest.

John had _that_ look on his face, like _I don't know what happened here, I think I'll find out __someday, but I'm not sure if I want to..._

It almost made her laugh.

...

"We have a case."

The words seemed to echo through the living room for a moment before John sat up in his chair and said, "That's great. I think. What's the case about?"

Sherlock's lips pressed together in a thin line as he typed something into his phone. "Two murders. A woman and a young boy. They were found together in a hotel room, though they aren't related or have anything in common."

"Oh," John said. "Guess that sounds interesting, right?"

Sherlock was already making his way toward the door, pulling his coat on and reaching for his scarf. Georgia walked into the living room, hair wet from her shower.

"Where are you going?" she asked, frowning.

"Got a case," Sherlock replied. John was pulling a jumper over his head at this point, ready to go with him.

"Oh," she said, nodding. "Good luck, then."

And John couldn't help but wish that they'd get over whatever had happened soon, because he didn't think he could live with the childishness of it all.


	10. Letter

_Got a case._

Georgia's lips pinched together as she tugged at a fray on the carpet. Her eyes scoured the living room, trying to find something that she could destroy. But not _really_ destroy, or else she'd get in trouble or have to pay for something with money she didn't have. Frustration built inside of her, making her muscles tense.

She hopped to her feet, an idea sneaking into her mind and a grin spreading across her features. She made her way to _his_ bedroom, something she'd never even considered before. She pushed the door open soundlessly, taking in the disaster zone that was supposed to be his room. She chuckled to herself.

An hour in, she'd found nothing _good_. She'd found several experiments she wished she could erase from her memories, and books scattered in every place imaginable (even under his pillow, which she thought would be most uncomfortable). She growled loudly, throwing one of his shoes at the wall. It made an excellent _thunk!_ noise.

And then she found it.

She knew he didn't smoke. He was always slapping those nicotine patches down on his arms and talking about how it's impossible to keep up with smoking in London. But he was also always talking about how he'd kill everyone he met just for a cigarette.

And now she was holding a pack in her hand.

There were three cigarettes missing out of twenty.

After some more searching, she found a lighter. She was _sure_ she hadn't ever been a smoker before, because the process of bringing a cigarette to her lips and lighting it was so foreign. She breathed in deeply, letting the smoke fill her lungs, and then she spent the next minute and a half coughing her organs out.

After much mental prepping, she managed to finish the cigarette. Her lungs burned and her eyes watered and she felt like her inner organs had had led painted in them, but she felt a new flare of determination.

So she slipped another from the pack and lit it.

This time, though, she let it burn out in a little glass tray she'd found. She still inhaled some of the smoke, but it wasn't nearly as bad. She did the same thing with the third, and the fourth, and fifth, and so on until there were only five left.

That's when the door downstairs opened, and their voices drifted toward her. Sherlock sounded bored, droning on about gambling and chance, while John sounded happy, excited.

She didn't have much time.

There was still one burning in the tray, but that didn't matter. She took out the thirteenth from the pack and lit it, bringing this one to her lips. Her body dreaded it, remembering the horrible sensation that had come with it last time, but she had to triumph. Ruining all but four of his precious cigarettes was better than five.

She heard the alarm as they both smelled the smoke, though Sherlock sounded more panicked. "Oh no," he said, his voice muffled through the door. "Where is she? Oh _no_!"

And then the door burst open and she shakily took another drag. "Hi," she said, a thrill shooting through her as the smoke filled the air.

His face was priceless. There was a mix of fury and humiliation that, for once, he couldn't disguise. In a matter of seconds, though, it quickly dropped from his features, replaced with that calmness that was beginning to piss her off.

John stood behind him. He looked shocked, and confused.

"Sherlock," he said, "are those...yours?"

The detective was silent, watching as Georgia brought the cigarette to her lips once again.

"I thought you said you'd quit!" John was sounding upset now, the shock wearing off.

"Nope," Georgia said, smiling. "There were three missing when I picked it up."

"And how many are left?" Sherlock spoke slowly, and she almost missed the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth.

She breathed out through her nose, watching as the smoke formed two streams. It hurt, but it was fun and made Sherlock's fist clench. "Four," she said.

And then he swept forward, snatched the cigarette from her hands, and took a long, deep drag. When he breathed out, his face was blissful. Georgia laughed, and he cracked a small smile at her, like they were sharing some secret joke. This time, thankfully, it was real.

* * *

><p>"Got the mail," John said as he walked into the living room. He flipped through the first few letters mumbling, "Bill, bill, bill, letter from mum, bill...oh, here, Sherlock, this one's for you..."<p>

He suddenly stopped, the corners of his mouth turning down and his forehead creasing in a frown. "Oh. Um, Georgia." He held out a small envelope and she reached up to take it, her stomach flipping. Before she could touch it, though, Sherlock had grabbed it and was inspecting it.

"Hey!"

"It could be poisoned," he said. "Or have a bomb in it."

When he was satisfied that it was perfectly safe, she opened it cautiously and removed the contents inside. There were two pictures and a small note. The pictures were both of her, one of when she first arrived at 221b, and the other of her at the store with Sherlock. Her hands shook as she unfolded the note.

It said, in elegant handwriting, _Always watching you._

There was a little heart drawn over the period.

Everything slipped from her fingers, slowly falling through the air and reminding her of a time when she was younger, when pigeons had shot into the sky and their feathers had been like snow, fluttering down to the earth. She didn't have time to feel excited that she remembered this, though.

_Always watching you_.

"Oh god," she whispered. She looked up, meeting Sherlock's inquisitive gaze. It was almost worse than the rabbit, knowing that someone was paying so close attention to her, capturing the moments of her memory-lacking life.

"Georgia?" John's voice sounded far away, like he was calling out to her from the other side of a huge field. But all that she could focus on was Sherlock, standing in front of her, waiting for her to say something, do something, always waiting.

_Always watching you_.

She swallowed and bit her lip. She blinked, shook her head, and bent down to pick up the pictures and paper. She held them out to Sherlock, who didn't seem fazed with the new development. Of course he wouldn't be surprised. He'd be expecting this kind of thing. He _knew_ everything.

She sank into one of the living room chairs and took a deep breath, closing her eyes and tugging on that memory of the pigeons. She'd been...five. She'd been five at the time, and she'd been at a park. Someone had run up to a flock of pigeons and sent them scattering, flying, and their loose feathers had just fallen, fallen, like snowflakes. She remembered that.

"They knew you were here from the beginning," she heard Sherlock say, snapping her out of her daydream.

"Yeah," she said. "I got that."

She listened as he passed everything over to John, and then the doctor sucked in a breath of air.

"You've got a stalker!" he exclaimed.

"No, no," she mumbled, opening her eyes. "I think it's something much more than that."


	11. Kidnapped

Georgia was alone again. It was happening more frequently, for reasons unknown to her. She was used to John being out a lot; he had work, Sarah, groceries, and other things like that. Sherlock...didn't. She was aware that he had the occasional case, and she knew that they came at random times, but he often left the house without telling her _why_. She guessed that there was someone he was meeting (or stalking—she wouldn't put it past him).

He had currently been away for over three hours. She stared with unfocused eyes as an actress with a blond wig crossed the screen of the telly to wrap her arms around a muscular brown haired actor that she'd nicknamed Beefy McHunksalot. She was simultaneously playing chess against herself (she'd found the board and pieces under a rather massive pile of newspaper clippings about child kidnappings) while drinking a cup of tea and reading an article in a magazine about celebrity scandals.

It was, in the words of Sherlock Holmes, dull.

She moved a black knight forward to take a white pawn, took a sip of her tea, flipped a page of the magazine and sighed to herself. If one of them didn't come home soon she was going to smoke more of Sherlock's cigarettes (since he'd bought another pack behind John's back and didn't know she'd seen him).

And then the telly turned off.

She jumped and stared at her reflection in the dark glass, as though expecting it to suddenly turn back on again. Just as she was putting her cup of tea down, the lights began to flicker. She counted thirty times before they stopped, illuminating a now terrifying living room. She glanced around, wide eyed, wondering just what the _bloody hell_ was going on. She stood, barely noticing the magazine as it fell to the floor in a heap of fashion and pink sparkles.

The phone rang, making her yelp. She glared at it suspiciously as it continued to ring. Eventually it stopped and she took a deep breath, stepping toward it hesitantly. It started up again and she ripped it from the base, holding it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Downstairs," a scratchy voice said, "there will be a black car waiting for you."

And then the line went dead.

She stared down at the phone and contemplated whether or not to go along with whatever this was. If they had the power to turn off the telly and switch the lights off and on like a little child, they probably also had the power to blow the place to smithereens if she didn't do as she was told. Even more, whoever it was could, potentially, help her to discover her past (even if she didn't enjoy the process). And, in the end, no matter what happened, Sherlock could find her. If not out of pure curiosity as to where she'd gone and who had taken her, then because John wouldn't let it go.

So she pulled on a pair of boots that Mrs. Hudson had given her and made sure to lock the door with an extra key she'd been given. She even left a little note on the kitchen counter, _Been kidnapped by someone who could flicker the lights. Please help._

There was a sleek black car outside, engine quietly purring, and the door was already open, waiting for her. She stood on the doorstep watching it waiting for her and a chill ran down her spine. She really had no idea what she was getting herself into here. Her life so far that she could remember consisted of lots of creepy things and follow-Sherlock-adventure-time, but that was it. This was something else, something dangerous, and she didn't know what to do if it went wrong.

And she was completely idiotic for being so willing in the first place, but she didn't admit that to herself. No, she was just having some fun, right? Getting rid of her boredom once and for all.

Even if it killed her.

She slid into the backseat and closed the door, pulling the seat belt across her chest and flinching when it made a loud _click_ as it buckled.

There were three other people in the car. There was a woman sitting next to her, busy typing something on her phone (this reminded Georgia of Sherlock and she almost smiled). There was a man driving and another man sitting in the passenger's seat, and they were both wearing black suits.

This was big. This wasn't just a kidnapping. Her blood pounded in her ears and she counted backward from ten to one, clutching at her seat belt as though it would keep someone from murdering her and dumping her body on the side of the road somewhere no one would ever find her...

The car suddenly stopped and the man in the passenger's seat got out, opening her door for her. She stumbled as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, but regained her balance again to see a man standing in front of her.

They were in a small stone courtyard, the car blocking the only exit. The man was dressed nicely and he was obviously well-fed. He was leaning on a black umbrella and regarding her in a very polite way. She felt that she could relax.

"Um." _Great start, Georgia_. "What am I doing here?"

"You are currently residing at 221 Baker Street," he said, "with a Doctor John Watson and Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes."

Oh. So this was about the men. She sighed and nodded, running a hand through her hair. "That's right."

"You have retrograde amnesia, most likely caused by a traumatic event." He spoke so calmly, as though rattling off anatomical vocabulary or the history of Egypt.

She shrugged. "I guess."

He moved forward, reminding her suddenly of the black knight she'd slid across the chessboard earlier that day. She glanced down momentarily and realized that she was wearing a white shirt and faded jeans that Mrs. Hudson had scrounged from the back of her closet; she was the white pawn.

"You still haven't told me why I'm here," she said, looking back up and meeting the man's gaze.

He paused, considering his next words. "I know about everything that happens in London. I see everything, hear everything, and no matter where you go I'll know about it." He frowned. "The problem is...I have no records of you before your amnesia."

She blinked. She was thoroughly creeped out by this point, but she didn't have a choice but to stay and listen to what he had to say.

"Sherlock is my responsibility," the man continued. "I make sure that he doesn't get into trouble. If you turn out to be trouble..." He leaned forward. "I will eliminate the problem."

Georgia swallowed and took a step back, goosebumps forming on her skin.

He smiled, breaking the tension. It was amazing how he could do that. "Please do not disappoint me," he said.

And then the man who'd opened her door touched her elbow and she was led back to the car. They traveled through various streets she didn't recognize and then, miraculously, they were at Baker Street. She climbed the stairs numbly, jamming her key into the lock and mumbling the words, "I'm home," before collapsing on the couch.

Sherlock was standing a few feet away, her note in his hands. "I thought you'd been kidnapped?"

"I was."

"And you were returned."

She nodded, closing her eyes. "Yep."

"Did he have an umbrella?"

She sat up in a rush. "Yes! Yes, who is he?"

Sherlock crumpled up the paper and dropped it in the wastebasket near the fireplace. "A nuisance."

* * *

><p><strong>Hey guys, sorry it took so long for me to upload this chapter. I started school this week and didn't have time to even write this until tonight. Hope you liked it. :)<strong>

**Also, I wasn't specifically trying to make Mycroft seem menacing, it just sort of happened. XD**


	12. Poisoned

The last thing Georgia could remember was biting into a piece of buttered toast. Surely, she'd thought at the time, she should be able to eat buttered toast without something drastic happening. And now here she was, lying on the bathroom floor with her head in John's lap as Sherlock mixed various chemicals together.

"What the hell did I eat?" she moaned, trying to blink away the blur in her vision. She couldn't feel her fingertips. Why couldn't she feel her fingertips?

"A type of poison I was experimenting with," Sherlock replied, voice level and hands steady as he emptied one beaker's contents into another. The solution bubbled for a moment and turned yellow. Dark yellow.

"Why..." She shook her head as her train of thought wandered off. She reeled it back in, scowling at the ceiling and John's worried face. "Why was there poison..."

"In the butter," Sherlock finished. "There was poison in the butter. I'm sure I marked it." Had his voice quavered there? She shook her head again, sure that she was just hearing things.

"John, you look funny."

"Don't say that," John said. He sounded angry. Georgia wasn't sure if he was angry at her or Sherlock.

Suddenly, the detective made a noise of triumph, something like "Ah-ha!" but with more dignity. He held out a syringe of the dark yellow substance she'd seen earlier and moved forward on his knees, taking hold of Georgia's arm. "If this doesn't work," he said, eyes glinting with excitement, "just know that you were lots of fun to have around."

"I think that's the closest thing to a tearful goodbye that you'll ever make, Holmes," John murmured. Sherlock ignored him, pulling Georgia's sleeve up away from her elbow and rubbing the inside with a cotton ball. Georgia could smell the alcohol. She gasped at the sudden, sharp pain there and then it was gone and numbness streaked up through her arm and she was suddenly sleepy, so sleepy...

"Oh," she breathed. "John, John, the room is spinning."

His lips moved. He was speaking, but she couldn't hear his words.

And then everything went dark.

When she woke up, her head was much clearer and she definitely wasn't on the couch. In fact, if the room hadn't been the most horrible disaster zone she'd ever witnessed, she probably wouldn't have recognized it at all.

She probably would have liked to not recognize the room. That would have been concerning, yes, but not quite as concerning as this. She was in _his_ room, tucked away in his surprisingly comfortable bed and it was _freaky_.

She scrambled out, pushing the blankets away and and tripping over a pile of random items before she fell against the door. She was still wearing all of her clothes. That was good. She pulled the door open and leaned against the frame for a moment. She made her way into the living room where she found the detective typing madly on his laptop. Or was that John's? She could never tell anymore.

"Why did you put me in your room?"

"John wouldn't let me leave you on the couch."

She should _not_ feel disappointed. "Oh. All right."

He looked up, the lack of expression on his face making her stomach churn. He was a sociopath, of course he wouldn't be worried. "I see the antidote worked."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Twenty eight hours."

"Really?" Georgia glanced around the living room, no wanting to keep making eye contact with him.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. Georgia swallowed and turned toward the kitchen. "Anything else I should look out for? I wouldn't want to ingest any more poison."

She was trying so hard not to look at him, focusing on it so much, that she did not hear him stand. When he did not respond to her question she glanced over her shoulder and gasped when she found him only a foot away.

"Don't eat the butter," he said quietly. "I haven't finished my experiment yet."

"Um. Thank you for the warning."

His expression was curiously blank, as though he were deep in thought. Her heart raced threateningly in her chest and she leaned away from him, not daring to let herself feel what her hormones were telling her to feel. This was Sherlock, the asshole who dragged her into a murder case and poisoned her with his experiments.

"I'm going to make myself something to eat," she said, trying to distract herself.

"No you won't," he said. "You're going to stand in the kitchen for fifteen minutes staring at the counter."

"What—"

"I am a sociopath, Georgia, not an idiot."

Once again she was surprised by how warm he was. _Goddammit_, she thought as he kissed her. And his shirt was soft, as soft as his skin, and he did experiments with dangerous chemicals, his skin shouldn't be so soft and what was he doing with his tongue—

She tore away from him, pulse pounding in her ears as her legs carried her out the door and down the stairs and past a confused Mrs. Hudson and out the front door and into the snow. Her bare feet protested as she ran, slapping against the cold concrete. Her thoughts were one confused jumble. She couldn't think. She could only breathe and run. And run. And keep running.

Eventually she ran out of energy and slowed to a walk, gasping for air. She didn't recognize the street she was on anymore, but she supposed that was okay. Sherlock would find her.

_Sherlock._

She ducked into an alleyway and leaned back against the cold, brick wall, squeezing her eyes closed. Why did he have to do things like that? Why did he have to mess with her mind like that?

"Why, hello there."

She yelped and shied away from the familiar voice. Her eyes swept the alley, trying to find the source, and they fell upon a well-dressed, black haired man with a sly grin.

"Hello, my Georgia," he said. "You're looking flustered."

And all of her memories came flooding back.

* * *

><p><strong>Holy crap guys, school ate my life.<strong>

**That's the only excuse I have for being so late in publishing this chapter. D: The good news is, I'm close to wrapping this up! And hopefully you guys will like the ending. XD**


End file.
